


A Dance in the Moonlight

by saltnhalo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Castiel/Omega Dean Winchester, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Explicit Sexual Content, Fighting, First Meetings, Identity Reveal, King Castiel, M/M, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Spy Dean Winchester, Warrior Dean Winchester, and then fighting as flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:40:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28786584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltnhalo/pseuds/saltnhalo
Summary: With a battle approaching, King's Spy Dean has been tasked with gathering intelligence on the opposing forces before the imminent arrival of the king. While scouting in the woods one night, he encounters an alpha whose clothes seem neither Edenish nor Daemonic, who can fight like both an alpha and an omega, and who entrances Dean like no one he has ever encountered before.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 83
Kudos: 418





	A Dance in the Moonlight

**Author's Note:**

> I'm fucking back, y'all. It's been a long hiatus, because everything about the last year has kicked my ass in so many ways, but I'm so glad to finally be at the stage where I'm ready to write and post things again. I've missed y'all, and I've missed contributing to this community <3
> 
> Big thanks to my betas, [cap](https://captainhaterade.tumblr.com/), kittimau, and evolving.diamond.
> 
> Enjoy!

Dean was born to fight.

His parents had guessed that he’d be an omega from a young age, from the way he’d so keenly watched Mary as she trained and tried his best to replicate it with wooden mockeries of her weapons. Sam had taken to John’s sword immediately, but Dean?

Dean had never been so at home as he had with a bow at his back and a dagger at his belt.

So Mary had taught him the omega’s way of fighting, early enough that by the time he presented and became eligible for proper training, he was already twice as fast, twice as quiet, and three times as deadly as his peers. He could move without being heard, score a bullseye from a hundred yards, wield a dagger like an extension of his person.

He was lethal, even before he stepped foot on a battlefield.

And when he did, he brought entire armies to their knees.

Dean was just as versatile on the battlefield as he was off—able to rain arrows down upon opposing troops, or charm his way behind enemy lines to end the lives of opposing nobles. It took a little time for him to mature, to lose some of his brash cockiness and replace it with quiet confidence, but after several years of service in the King’s Army, there’s no doubt that he’s one of the best warriors, omega or alpha, in the kingdom.

Which is he’s been called in specifically for this mission.

Dean rides into the camp just before sunset. There are few things he loves more than being astride Impala with the knowledge that his weapons are within easy reach, and he’s had a nice ride out to the front lines. Now that he’s here, though, his work begins.

Two messengers meet him just within the edge of the camp. One runs ahead—presumably to let the generals know of his arrival—while one stays with Dean, leading him through the maze of tents and soldiers. Some of them look up as he passes, but none watch him with any real interest. Omega warriors are common enough these days, and Dean has gone to great lengths to maintain as much anonymity as he can. Considering what he does, it doesn’t always pay to be easily recognisable.

Finally, they stop outside a tent that is bigger than those surrounding it. The messenger takes Impala after Dean has dismounted, promising that she will return to take Dean to his tent after his meeting with the generals. Dean thanks her, gives his horse a final pat, then turns and makes his way into the tent.

He finds Bobby and Rufus inside, and can’t help but smile when he sees them, letting some of his professionalism slip away. Still, he greets them as he should.

“May the breath of Eden grace your wings, generals,” he says, accompanying his words with a bow that recognises their status.

Bobby and Rufus nod their recognition, though Dean can see that they’re just barely refraining from rolling their eyes at the ceremony of it all. “And may she never fall,” they say in a monotone unison, and then Rufus beckons him over. “How’s your father?”

“Still grumpy that he can’t be out here,” Dean tells them with a grin, “but teaching the young alphas is a good distraction for him. Even with an injured shoulder, he still kicks their asses.”

Bobby snorts. “I’d expect nothing less.” For a moment, there’s nothing but gruff amusement on his features—and then his expression shifts into something more serious, and Dean knows that it’s time to talk **strategy**.

“Why did you call me out here?” he asks as Bobby and Rufus sit down at the map table in the middle of the tent, following their lead and pulling up a stool.

Bobby leans his elbows onto the table, gesturing at the small figurines that represent Eden’s forces. “We’ve been here for almost a month,” he says, “and we’ve had no luck in breaking through the enemy’s defences yet. The king will be arriving later this week to review our strategies and join the battle, and we’d like to have some new information to provide him with. That’s why we need you.”

So whatever information Dean needs to find not only needs to help them win this battle, but will also be relayed _straight_ to the king. That’s an added layer of stress he hadn’t quite needed for this assignment, but he’s worked under more difficult conditions before. It makes him wonder if he’ll get to _meet_ the king—he’s heard a lot about the young alpha who has done so much to reform their kingdom in the last few years.

But that possibility can wait.

“I can do that.” Firm confidence laces Dean’s words—he’s one of the best spies in the kingdom, after all. “Point me where you need me to look, and I can get you what you need.”

~

By the time he’s finished planning and talking strategy with Bobby, Rufus, and the few captains who filter in and out, night has well and truly fallen, and Dean’s stomach is rumbling. He’s dismissed when it finally gets too loud to ignore, and sent on his way with a gentle cuff from Rufus that only his father’s oldest friends, who’ve known him since he was a pup, could get away with.

It’s nice to be back with them, out on the front lines in the middle of the action, and despite the late hour and long day, there’s a spring in Dean’s step as he heads away from the generals’ tent. The cooks give him a good hunk of bread, a heaping bowl of stew, and the promise of more if he needs it. With some food finally in his stomach, Dean rejoins the messenger from earlier and follows her to his **tent**.

Impala is already hitched, content with some water and a pile of hay, and Dean gives her a fond pat as he passes by and heads into his tent. Inside, it’s comfortable but nothing fancy. It’ll make a good home away from home for as long as he needs to be here.

Exhausted from the long day of riding and his discussion with Bobby and Rufus, Dean doesn’t have the energy to do much more than strip out of his travelling clothes, wipe himself down with the cloth and bucket of lukewarm water that’s been left in the corner, then lay out his bedroll.

Getting to work is something that can wait until tomorrow. For now, all he wants to do is sleep.

~

When Dean wakes the next morning, the sun that filters through the gaps of the tent entrance is bright and angled. It must be mid-morning already, but as he stretches and assesses the aches in his body from yesterday’s travel, he can’t seem to regret sleeping in. It’s unlikely that he’s going to get much solid rest while he’s trying to gather intelligence, so he may as well get it while he can.

For a moment, he just stares up at the ceiling of the tent, gathering his thoughts and energy for the day, then exhales the breath he’s been holding and pushes himself up out of bed.

It’s time to get to work.

~

After wolfing down a quick breakfast and checking all his gear, Dean heads out.

He spends the first part of his day checking out the camp—to give any kind of useful information, he has to know what they’re working with first, so he assesses the layout of the camp, checks out their weapons, chats with the soldiers. While some of the alphas look at him with curiosity, most of them don’t even blink, and it’s nice to see that omega soldiers are so much more common and accepted than they had been back when Mary had fought.

The sun is well on its way to sinking below the horizon when word reaches Dean that the king has arrived at the **camp**.

The gossip flows through the camp like water, stirring the soldiers into chatter and activity. So much for ‘later this week’—Dean will have to work quickly if he’s to have any information of value before he’s called in for an audience.

So despite Dean’s curiousity to meet the man who has led Eden the last few years, he has work still to be done, and he can’t let gossip distract him from finishing today’s tasks.

Instead, he heads away from the source of the gossip, towards the outer edges of the **camp**.

And that’s where he stays. The forests on either side of the grassy plain where both armies are camped seem largely empty, he’s been told, so if they’re going to get an edge over their opponents, this is where Dean needs to **look**.

True to the information he’s been given, the forest is mostly quiet. Dean only sees other people a handful of times—once a group of Edenite soldiers, and a few straggling Daemons once he gets closer to the other camp. None of them see him—he sticks to the shadows and the shrubbery, determined just to watch unless his hand is forced. If he had managed to catch an enemy on their own, then maybe he could have taken them out, but it’s too risky as it is.

Still, the thought makes him wonder what a full patrol of omega warriors would be able to accomplish if they were deployed into the forests. The Daemons would be largely unprepared for the stealth tactics mastered by omegas, and he makes a note to suggest the idea to the king once he gets an audience.

Dean stays in the forest and watches the Daemonic camp from the cover of the treeline, collecting information on everything he possibly can, and bides his time until he’s ready to return to his own camp.

Night has well and truly fallen by now, and the forest is silent. Still. It’s very different from the camp at night time, full of rowdy chatter and singing until the early hours of the morning, so as he makes his way back, Dean takes a moment to enjoy the quiet.

And that’s when he hears the crunch of **footsteps**.

Immediately, Dean switches from relaxed to alert, fingers closing around the hilt of one of his knives. _Someone else is out here with me_.

The moonlight doesn’t give him much to go on, shadows shifting in silver and black streaks with the gentle sway of the trees, but he casts his eyes around regardless, trying to pinpoint the source of the sound. When that doesn’t work, he turns his face towards the breeze and scents the air.

Rainstorms. Leather. The clean smell of fresh parchment.

For a moment, Dean is taken aback—his sensitive nose can only pick up hints of that scent on the air, but even so, he can tell that this person is an alpha, and this person smells _incredible_.

_Well. That certainly makes this situation a little more complicated._

But Dean can’t let himself get distracted. He has a job to do and a duty to the king, and if there’s an enemy spy out here with the same purpose as Dean, then Dean needs to find and neutralise them as quickly as possible. He’s not sure what kind of commanders send an alpha to do an omega’s job, but that’s fine by him. It’s only going to make this person easier to track down.

Dean crouches low to the ground as he follows that faint scent trail, his footsteps nearly silent against the leaf litter and fingers ready by the hilts of his blades, should he need them. He regrets not having his bow on him, but it was a little too cumbersome for the woods and the stealth he requires, so his throwing knives and daggers will have to **do**.

The scent leads over the crest of a small rise—the sound of footsteps has stopped, for now, but Dean is still on high alert as he peeks over the top of the hill and down into the hollow below. The moon washes through the trees, turning the ground a dappled silver, and it’s there that Dean finally catches sight of the alpha he’s been tracking.

From here, it’s hard to see the guy’s face. All Dean can tell is that he’s tall-ish, with unruly dark hair, and wearing non-descript clothes. They _look_ Edenish, but in such a strange, plain way that it’s truly hard to tell. If it was someone from Eden’s camp, they’d be dressed in a soldier’s garb, or something more recognisably Edenish, but this…

Dean doesn’t want to risk his chances on this man being an enemy spy.

He creeps a little closer, making sure to keep to the shadows. His blade hisses quietly as he pulls it free of its sheath, but as Dean is weighing up how far he’ll have to throw, the alpha turns around.

Dean finds himself staring at blue eyes for a moment, surprisingly captivated—

Until the man scents the air, freezes up, and looks directly towards where Dean is crouched in the shadows.

Dean doesn’t know how he’s been spotted, but his body reacts on instinct, and he’s throwing the knife before he even realises it’s left his hand. The man is already moving, though, and by the time the knife reaches its target, he’s ducked out of sight behind a tree. The knife thuds uselessly into the trunk and lodges there.

If this man really is a spy, then Dean can’t let him get away. He springs up from his hiding spot and takes chase, trying to balance staying relatively hidden with his need to catch up with the alpha. If he can capture him to find out just what the hell his deal is, that’ll be great. If not, then there’s no chance that the man will be making it out of these woods **alive**.

The man slips out from behind his cover, a quick-moving shadow between the trees, but Dean is faster and throws his next knife with a sharp snap of his wrist. It sings through the air and grazes across the alpha’s bicep a half-second before he disappears behind the next tree. Dean hears the sharp hiss of his inhale, and feels satisfaction curl in his gut.

He pauses to pull his first knife out of the tree it had embedded in—he hadn’t seen where the second one had gone, so he’ll have to find that after he’s done here—then continues after the alpha. There hadn’t been a sword at his hip that Dean could see, and without that, his hand to hand combat will be almost useless against Dean’s own blades. This shouldn’t be hard.

The deep shadows around the tree haven’t moved, and Dean is confident that the alpha is still behind it, knowing he’s pinned down. He shifts his grip on his knife and advances forward, but as soon as he takes another step—

It’s pure instinct that tells Dean to _move_ , just as the alpha lunges towards him from the shadows to his left.

Dean _just_ manages to sidestep the attack, and barely has the chance to wonder, _how the hell did he get around me so quietly?_ before he’s fighting for his life.

Most of the alphas that Dean has fought have used their brute strength to make up for being slow on their feet, but not this one. Up close, it’s clear that he’s been well-trained, staying nimbly on his toes. There’s a determination in his blue eyes, the kind of focus born from extensive training and the fear of a life or death situation.

But what’s _most_ surprising is the flash of silver that Dean barely manages to block with his own blade, dancing out of arms’ reach for a moment as he reassesses the situation.

The man is wielding a dagger—an _omega’s_ weapon—and not with the clumsiness that usually accompanies an alpha accustomed to the weight and balance of a sword. No, from how close that blade had come to Dean’s ribs, this alpha definitely knows what he’s doing.

For a second, they eye each other up, moonlight washing across the space between them. Dean scents the air, double-checking that _no_ , he hadn’t mistaken the scent of an alpha. He’s never encountered an alpha so well-trained in an omega’s craft, not even his own father.

“Who are you?” he growls, the fingers of his left hand twitching towards another throwing knife. Whoever this alpha is, he’s more dangerous than Dean had thought, and he _should_ just neutralise him, but…

Curiosity has a hold of him now. He wants to know more.

The alpha is still watching him with narrowed eyes, fingers gripped around the hilt of his dagger. His scent exudes a _don’t fuck with me_ message, and honestly, it’s distracting Dean more than a little. Anyone who doesn’t start to stink of fear after being chased by an omega warrior is either incredibly stupid, or incredibly confident in their abilities.

“I could ask the same of you,” the alpha replies warily. Blood trickles from the cut on his bicep, but his undivided focus is fixed on Dean. “How do I know you’re not a spy?”

Dean snorts, shifting his weight. He’s ready for an attack, if it comes, but for now, he’s content with sizing up this alpha and seeing what information he can glean.

“It seems we’ve got a similar issue,” he points out, gesturing at the man’s garb with the point of his knife. “I’ve never seen Edenish clothes like yours.”

The alpha glances down at his clothes for a moment. He parts his lips, as though he’s about to provide an explanation—and then suspicion and wariness layer thickly through his scent again, and his posture tenses up. He doesn’t trust Dean, that’s for sure.

“I don’t suppose you’ll just let me go?” he asks, but there’s an undercurrent of steel to his words that tells Dean he’s ready to fight his way out of here if he needs to.

Good. So is Dean.

“Until I’m sure you’re not a threat to my people?” He gathers himself, tightens his grip around his knife, then growls out, “Absolutely not.”

And then he lunges.

He’d been expecting to catch the alpha off guard, to get the upper hand, but even as he moves, the man is already sidestepping. He knocks Dean’s knife out of the way, driving his free hand towards Dean’s ribs in a punch that would have _hurt_ had Dean not blocked it before it connected with its target. This close, the alpha’s scent is even stronger, tumultuous and tempting, and Dean only gets a moment to mentally refocus himself before the next series of attacks come.

They fight like it’s a dance, almost able to _predict_ what the other’s movements are going to be. The alpha swings his knife, Dean catches his forearm before it’s able to connect. Dean aims a kick at the man’s head, and he ducks it neatly. Now that they’ve settled into an evenly-matched rhythm, Dean is able to move on instinct, letting his brain start working once more to figure out just what this guy’s _deal_ is.

The more Dean fights the alpha, the more blows they exchange, the more he can pick up his style. Even though he fights with a hybrid of disciplines that Dean has never encountered before, a strange clash of alpha and omega styles that somehow _works_ , the grace and fluidity of his movements is undeniably Edenish. There’s no way an opposing spy could learn the style so convincingly, and it makes him feel much more confident that the alpha he’s fighting isn’t just pretending to be from Eden.

And once he figures that out, the fight becomes less about survival, and more about _play_.

The next time they exchange blows and separate, Dean rolls his neck out and allows himself a grin as he eyes the alpha. They’re both breathing hard by now, nicked here and there by blades and definitely sporting aches that will become bruises by tomorrow, but he can see in the alpha’s eyes that he’s come to the same conclusion—that Dean is legitimately Edenish, and therefore not a threat.

They could stop here—call a truce and head back to where Eden’s forces are camped—but Dean is _so_ curious about this man. He’s never met an alpha who could match him in a fight quite as well as this one can, and he’s certainly never met _anyone_ who fights with such a strange mix of alpha and omega styles.

So he lifts his free hand up to call a pause, then slips his knife back into his belt. He’s not aiming to kill any more, but when he curls his hands back into fists and settles back into his guard, he can see that spark of interest in the alpha’s eyes grow.

Slowly, the alpha mirrors Dean’s action, tucks away his own dagger into the sheath that Dean hadn’t spotted on his first onceover of the man. He raises his fists, and while his expression is still serious, there’s a light in his eyes and the _tiniest_ uptick of his lips that says, _come get me_.

Now _that’s_ a challenge that Dean cannot possibly resist.

This time, when he moves, it’s quick and playful—feinting to try and goad the alpha into a response, or get him to let his guard down. Dean doesn’t expect him to fall for it, and he doesn’t, but it’s intriguing to watch the calculated way that he moves and responds to each one of Dean’s attacks, feinted or not.

When Dean finally does strike, with the full intention of making contact, the alpha is ready for it. Like when they’d been fighting before, he slides out of the way and returns his own attacks. This time, though, there’s the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips, and his scent is _lighter_. It’s nice (and more than a little bit attractive that this guy can fight _so_ well), and Dean is enjoying getting to _properly_ spar with someone for the first time in a while.

They’d already known that they’re pretty evenly matched, and that just becomes clearer as they continue to spar, trading a few glancing blows but not enough to properly hurt or incapacitate. They’re too quick for that, too adept, and Dean finds himself breathing hard but buzzing with the adrenaline that accompanies a _real_ challenge.

Plus, when the alpha resets himself, settling into a guard with his hands up and his eyes fixed unwaveringly on Dean…

Well, it’s more than a little hot. This guy is a talented fighter, and Dean can respect that.

But as good as the alpha is—and he is _good_ , clearly having grown up with combat training just like Dean—when it comes down to it, Dean has the edge. He’s been training for this ever since he was a pup, after all. It’s his job. His _life_.

So the _second_ Dean sees an opening, the slightest slip in the alpha’s defence, he takes advantage of it. He ducks in quickly, landing a punch to the man’s stomach that knocks the breath out of him, then hooks his leg between the alpha’s and unbalances him. They both hit the forest floor with a _thud_ , with Dean on top of the alpha, straddling his hips and pressing his shoulders against the ground.

“Okay,” he says with a grin, his breaths heavy and ragged. “I believe that you’re Edenish. No spy could fight like that.”

The alpha inhales, trying to replace the air that was knocked out of him by Dean’s attack. “Thank you, I think,” he rasps, then clears his throat. This close, Dean takes a moment to appreciate his face in the moonlight—the blue eyes with the crinkles at the corners, the pink lips, the already-messy hair that’s been made even more wild by their fight.

And his _scent_. Dean tries to be subtle about his inhale, but from the slight narrowing of the man’s eyes and the tiny flare of his nostrils, he wasn’t quite as subtle as he’d **thought**.

It’s impossible to miss the interest that curls through the alpha’s scent like smoke, thick and irresistible. Dean swallows and presses down harder on the man’s shoulders to distract himself.

“How did you learn to fight like that?”

The man’s eyes narrow, just for a moment, as though he’s weighing his words. Dean is starting to suspect that there’s more to him than he’s letting on, and his curiosity is only growing with each moment that passes.

“Everyone in my family was trained that way, from a young age,” he says finally, and his words are clear and careful, his voice like liquid gravel. “No matter how we presented, we needed to know how to defend ourselves. That’s why I can fight like an omega, not just an alpha.”

And isn’t that interesting? Dean has picked up some alpha techniques just from having trained with Sam and his dad, and being around alpha soldiers, but what the man had just displayed was on a whole other level. Who the hell is he to have needed to learn both styles from such a young age?

Dean doesn’t press, though—not in that way, at least. Instead, he says, “That’s impressive. What’s your name?”

Again, there’s that flicker of uncertainty across the alpha’s face. The sense that he’s weighing up his answer. What is he hiding?

Dean tightens his fingers against the man’s shoulders, just a touch, just enough to warn him that Dean can sense his indecision and wants a proper answer.

His eyes narrow slightly up at Dean, and a tense moment passes before he finally answers.

“…Cas.”

Dean watches him as his lips form around that single syllable, and while there’s still hesitation there, there are no signs that he’s lying. Cas doesn’t break Dean’s gaze, just stays there, pressed against the leaves. Unwavering.

But it’s also not the full truth.

Is Dean willing to let that slide?

He pauses, just for a moment—then sits back a little and relaxes his grip on the alpha’s shoulders. He’s still straddling him, keeping him mostly pinned, but if the man wanted to escape, he could.

“Dean,” he shares back, letting his lips curve until into a smile. Below him, Cas visibly relaxes. Something flickers through his scent, and there’s a touch of calculated playfulness in his eyes when he tilts his head.

“Are you going to let me up, Dean?”

There’s a challenge threaded through Cas’s words, and one that Dean feels compelled to rise to. He leans forward again, pressing Cas’s shoulders back into the ground, and lets his smile shift into a smirk.

“Are you going to make me?”

And that seems to shift something in Cas, because between one breath and the next, he lunges upwards, fast enough that Dean almost loses his balance. He just manages to keep from toppling over into the leaves, and in that split second of imbalance, Cas slips out from beneath him.

Dean barely has time to react before strong hands are grappling him to the forest floor, and he grunts as he lands on his shoulder, instinctively trying to wriggle free of Cas’s grip. He manages to half-escape, but Cas follows, pinning him down with more strength than Dean had expected. The guy must be packing some serious muscle beneath his clothes.

With his back against the ground, Dean is able to identify at least five different ways he’d be able to break out of this hold… but he doesn’t use any of them. Instead, he just grins up at Cas, smiling the same smile that has brought entire courts to their knees in the name of Eden and the king.

“I guess you did make me, huh?” he asks teasingly, his voice little more than a breath that curls into the night air between them.

And between one heartbeat and the next, Cas is kissing him.

The kiss is rough and bruising, the product of how much tension had built up during their fight, and it feels fucking _amazing_. Dean groans and arches up into it, curling his fingers into Cas’s shirt and threading the other hand into his hair.

Cas growls in response, a sound that rumbles through his chest, pleased and possessive and all the things that tie Dean’s insides into knots. Strong hands pin him against the ground, and Dean pushes back against them, smirking into the kiss as he nips gently at Cas’s bottom lip. He’s not one to just roll over, and Cas must like that, if the appreciation that weaves into the scent of his arousal is anything to go by.

They kiss for a while longer, holding each other close with bruising fingers and kissing until they’re breathless. Dean is the first to let his hands explore, sliding them under the layers of Cas’s Edenish clothing. Cas does the same, seeming to only just remember that there’s more of Dean to explore.

One hand slides under the hem of Dean’s shirt, grazing over the edges of one of the many scars littered across Dean’s skin. It makes him pause for a second, drawing back from the kiss to study Dean. In that moment of quiet scrutiny, Dean just looks up at Cas. They size each other up once more, and Dean makes a face as if to say— _I’m that good at fighting, are you really surprised that I picked up a few scars along the way?_

Something in Cas’s expression crinkles into amusement, and he gives a tiny nod, almost to himself. He tugs at the hem of Dean’s shirt, sitting back to let Dean lever himself up enough to pull it off, then tosses it aside. For a moment, Dean considers turning the tables, but then there are hands pressing him back down into the leaves and lips trailing over the skin of his chest. _Soon_ , he thinks as he arches up into Cas’s touch, huffing his breathless amusement as Cas presses his lips to every single one of the scars on Dean’s chest.

“The mark of a good fighter,” Cas murmurs against his skin, and Dean can’t help but snort.

“Or a shitty one, depending on the person,” he rebuts. Cas just hums.

“But you’re still alive. And, having seen how deadly you can be, I am lucky to be as well.”

Dean runs his fingers through Cas’s hair, then pulls him back up with a semi-firm tug. Blue eyes stare down at him, dark and enticed by the easy way that the two of them seem to be able to exchange their power. “You’re too hot to kill,” he says with a smirk, then uses Cas’s moment of distraction and his own strength to knock him off balance, flipping them over and pinning Cas down amongst the leaves.

“I’m glad my hotness saved my life,” Cas deadpans breathlessly, the spark of dry humour not dulled by the surprise of finding himself on his back once again.

Dean can only grin, a quick, wry curl of his lips, and then ducks his head to kiss Cas once more.

They end up losing more clothing—while Cas’s nondescript clothes are intriguing to Dean, he finds the skin revealed by their discarding much more interesting. Cas melts with every press of Dean’s lips to his skin, rumbling his pleasure into the night air. The grip of his fingers in Dean’s hair and against his shoulder flexes sporadically, betraying the strength of his impulse to regain control, but for now, he lets Dean have it.

And Dean is more than happy to wield his control. He keeps Cas pressed down against the leaves as he slowly trails his kisses and gentle grazes of teeth downwards, fixing Cas with a smirk as he hooks his fingertips into the edges of Cas’s underclothes.

When he pauses there for a moment too long, a growl of impatience and frustration begins to rumble in Cas’s chest, and it’s the alpha in him, but also almost something _more_ —something that demands he be respected, obeyed.

Dean swallows, throat suddenly dry, his hands tugging at the last of Cas’s garments without conscious thought.

The cock that springs free is long and thick, flushed and already dripping precome against Cas’s stomach. It takes a conscious effort for Dean to keep from licking his lips, and he knows that his arousal is betrayed in his scent, because Cas’s spikes to match.

Dean barely hesitates enough to shove Cas’s underwear all the way out of the way before ducking his head and taking the head of Cas’s cock between his lips. It’s mildly salty where it rests on his tongue, and he smirks around it when he hears Cas groan under his breath.

He takes his time, using just enough of the tricks that he knows to wind Cas up without actually tipping him over the edge—curling his tongue over the tip, bobbing his head down as far as he can go without choking, even pulling off to mouth over the skin of Cas’s shaft. He wants to see how long it will take Cas to snap.

It turns out that the answer is _not very long_.

There’s no way to tell when Cas’s hands ended up in his hair, since Dean had been more than a little distracted, but the fingers tugging at the short strands become more and more desperate. Finally, right as Dean tongues against the slit of Cas’s cock, Cas’s grip tightens and he pulls Dean up and off his cock, hard enough to unbalance him.

As it turns out, that works in Cas’s favour, because he uses Dean’s momentum to flip them over and press Dean against the ground with his body, one hand tugging at Dean’s pants while the other stays in his hair. Their kiss is more like a clash of teeth and tongues and desperation, but when Cas tries to use the hand in his hair to tip Dean’s head and expose his throat, Dean nips sharply at his bottom lip: a warning.

He’s never bared his throat for an alpha, not even for a king, and despite how much Cas has caught him off guard tonight, he’s not going to start now.

For a moment, though, Dean is worried that the sharp rebuttal will piss Cas off, but instead he just feels the alpha huff a laugh against his mouth. The grip on his hair eases, and instead, he redoubles his efforts on getting Dean’s pants off.

The scent of Dean’s slick curls through the air as his belt is unbuckled and pants shoved down around his thighs, and Dean is grateful that the darkness doesn’t show the flush on his cheeks as he realises just how fucking turned on he is. Cas growls as he smells it, breaking away from the kiss for a moment to drink in the air. “You smell incredible,” he mutters under his breath, and Dean, needing to put himself back on level ground, runs his fingers through Cas’s hair and kisses him again.

“Are you just going to tell me how good I smell,” he goads between kisses, letting his nails rake lightly over Cas’s scalp, “or are you going to actually fucking knot me sometime tonight?”

Cas huffs against Dean’s lips, but something in his scent sharpens, and the touch of his hands becomes more direct. Dean groans as Cas’s fingers wrap around him where he’s hard and aching, letting his head thud back against the ground for a moment. Cas’s lips, the touch of his hands, it’s so much, and Dean just lets himself be overwhelmed by it.

It’s only when Cas’s fingers trail further down that Dean manages to retrieve his brain from his dick, remembering that there’s _even better_ pleasure in store for him if Cas will just hurry up. Two fingers tease at the edge of his soaked hole, and Dean growls as he plants his feet into the dirt and shoves down onto them.

Cas makes a surprised sound against his mouth that quickly morphs into a laugh, deep and rasping in a way that curls down Dean’s spine just right. “Impatient,” he mutters, but he must get the message because he fucks Dean with his fingers just a few times, then settles back onto his heels to get rid of the last of any clothing that could possibly get in their way.

Dean props himself up on his elbows to watch, tugging off one of his boots as Cas gets the other one. After that, his pants are easy to pull all the way off and toss aside. Finally, with his legs totally unfettered, Dean pulls him back down with a hand in his hair and leg hooking over his hip. “Took your time,” he goads, and Cas’s scent flares in a way that makes Dean shiver.

“You are insufferable,” Cas huffs, bending down to kiss him quiet. Dean’s breath hitches as the head of Cas’s cock presses against his hole, and the alpha smirks against his lips. He could tease Dean, make him writhe and beg—he’s strong enough to hold Dean in place if he tried to hurry things along, that’s for sure. But Cas must be feeling the tension and the _need_ as much as Dean is, because there’s very little hesitation in his movements as he shifts his weight and presses forward, sinking into Dean in one smooth thrust.

He’s long and thick and feels fucking _perfect_ inside of Dean, who can’t help the moan that escapes him as Cas bottoms out and immediately sets a pace that threatens to make Dean’s toes curl. Holy _shit_ , the lead up had been hot, but this is a whole other level.

The corner of Cas’s lips lifts in a smirk—he can clearly gauge Dean’s pleasure from his reaction and the shift in his scent. Lit by the moon and with his teeth slightly bared, he looks wild, and so stunning that it takes Dean’s breath away.

But he can’t let Cas have the upper hand for long.

Dean lets Cas fuck him for a little while longer, encouraging him with his voice and hands that he can’t keep from sliding the length of Cas’s back or gripping his ass—

And then he shoves Cas back just enough to make him slip out, digs a knee into his ribs, and flips them so that he’s sitting across the alpha’s hips.

It happens so fast that Cas is left just staring up at Dean for a moment, his scent sharp with shock—but as soon as he realises Dean’s intentions from their new position and the smug look on Dean’s face, he settles again.

Dean reaches back behind himself and wraps his fingers around Cas’s cock, grinning as he gives it a few slick strokes before sinking down onto it. Cas’s lashes flutter silver in the moonlight as his breath hitches. As Dean starts rocking his hips and fucking himself back on Cas’s cock, the alpha’s eyes slide open again, and the way he looks at Dean almost punches the breath out of him. There’s been heat and tension between them from the very first moment they’d each realised they were not alone in the forest, but this…

This feels different. _More_.

He closes his eyes and tips his head back, so that he doesn’t have to keep meeting that gaze that feels as though it reaches down to the very depths of his soul. Cas’s hands settle like hot brands on his hips, guiding his movements, and as soon as the alpha starts fucking up into him in earnest, knot steadily growing at tugging against his rim, it’s all over for Dean.

It only takes a few desperate strokes to have him coming over Cas’s chest, and Dean opens his eyes just in time to watch Cas follow him over the edge. His grip on Dean’s hips is so tight that it will probably bruise as he grinds his knot up into Dean, coming deep inside him with a moan that is swallowed up by the trees and the quiet of the night.

In the aftermath, both of them sweaty and panting (not to mention the fact that Dean is sure he has at least a couple of leaves in his hair), Dean looks down at Cas and laughs breathlessly. Cas matches it with his own smile, finally relaxing his grip on Dean’s hips and smoothing his hands over Dean’s thighs instead.

“Damn,” Dean says, grinning, “this is _not_ how I expected tonight to go.”

“Nor I,” Cas echoes. His hands continue to move over Dean’s skin. “Not that I’m complaining, however. I just wanted a walk to clear my head, but this was infinitely preferable to being murdered in the woods.”

Dean snorts and settles back against Cas, smirking when it makes the alpha groan under his breath, fingers squeezing against Dean’s thighs for a moment. “Can’t understand why,” he teases, then tips his head back. In the gaps between tree branches, the stars shine overhead, and Dean lets out a long exhale. Gods, he feels good.

“Looks like we might be here a little while longer,” Dean murmurs as he looks back down at Cas, who’s still watching him with that unreadable look in his eyes. He raises his eyebrows, and the look disappears, Cas’s lips curving up into a smile instead.

“I have no issue with that,” comes the response, Cas reaching up to slide his hands into Dean’s hair and pull him back down for another kiss.

~

Dean heads back to the camp as the sun is rising over the horizon, thoroughly worn out but still fucking _buzzing_. It’s been so long since he’s had the opportunity to get laid, and after spending the night with Cas in the forest, he’s aching in the best possible way.

Cas had left first, pressing kiss after kiss to Dean’s skin as if he couldn’t drag himself away, but he’d said goodbye just before dawn. Dean can’t help but wonder if he’ll see him around the camp—get to feel those hands on his skin again, or those lips against his throat, or, hell, just talk to the guy and get some real answers about who he is.

Either way, it doesn’t matter. It had been an interesting night, but now he needs to focus once more, and remind himself just why he’s been called out here. He’s supposed to be gathering intelligence for the generals and the king, not having night-time romps with handsome, mysterious alphas in the woods.

He finds a creek on his way back to the camp and cleans himself off enough to get rid of Cas’s scent and the smell of sex, then follows the water downstream. By the time he reaches the camp, the sun has risen, creeping slowly above the trees and the city of tents that stretches out before him.

Dean is expecting to be able to sneak back to his tent, catch an hour or two of rest, then get back to work…

But it seems that the universe has other ideas.

“Winchester!”

Dean barely manages to keep himself from groaning out loud—he can _see_ his tent, he’s so close to being able to get some sleep, but for the damn messenger who’s standing in his way.

“Winchester, you’ve been summoned to an audience with the king.”

And suddenly, catching some rest in his tent is the last of Dean’s worries. He snaps to attention, adrenaline running through him at the prospect of meeting the king for the very first time. When he’d considered how this meeting would go, he’d at least expected to have had a little sleep, and _not_ have been off getting laid in the woods while he was supposed to be scouting, but it doesn’t sound like Dean is getting any say in those circumstances today.

The messenger is already disappearing amongst the tents once more, so Dean swears under his breath and follows after him, quickly double checking that he put his clothes back on the right way round and desperately hoping that there’s no scent still lingering on his clothes.

The camp is a maze of tents that Dean is too tired to remember the exact layout of, but he does his best to keep up with the messenger, who clearly knows the camp inside and out and keeps sending Dean impatient looks over his shoulder. He tries not to roll his eyes and picks up the pace, feeling his heart double-beat in his chest as they emerge into the open space in front of the king’s tent.

There’s no mistaking it, just for its sheer size and the crest of Eden that decorates every available space, but truth be told, it’s a lot less gaudy than he’d expected. Dean has met with many royals, and most of them enjoy displaying the wealth that accompanies their position, but perhaps this one is different.

The messenger motions for Dean to wait and ducks into the tent, so Dean takes one last moment to straighten his clothes, scent himself, and try and make his hair at least somewhat presentable.

Moments later, the messenger re-emerges from the tent, and nods to the two soldiers standing guard on either side. They reach for curtains covering the entrance to the tent and pull them back for Dean to enter, as one of them announces, “Dean Winchester, King’s Spy, arrived for an audience with His Majesty King Castiel of Eden.”

With nerves in his stomach at the prospect of finally meeting the king, Dean makes his way into the tent. Bobby and Rufus are standing off to the side, but Dean can’t greet them until he has greeted the king, so he turns his attention to the man standing at the far end of the tent, facing away from Dean as he pores over a map table. For a moment, Dean watches him, noting the strength in his shoulders, the mess of his dark hair, the familiar way he holds himself…

He makes the realisation as the king starts to turn, and when their eyes meet across the room, it feels like all the breath has been knocked out of Dean’s lungs.

He can see his own shock reflected in the king’s blue eyes—eyes that are not quite as piercing as they had been in the moonlight, but that still manage to capture Dean’s entire being with just one look.

It feels as though time has frozen, in this single moment, and everything else has fallen away. It’s just him and Cas, the king, this stunning alpha who Dean cannot reconcile as being his sovereign.

Still, despite his overwhelming shock, Dean is nothing if not well-trained in courtesy. He forces his gaze towards the floor and bows as deeply as his tired body can manage. “Your Majesty.”

 _Cas_.

For several moments, there is silence. When Dean chances a glance up, he finds Cas ( _King Castiel_ , how had he not caught that before) still watching him. His initial shock has disappeared from his expression, replaced with a guarded vulnerability that Dean can only read through years of study and practice.

“You may rise, D— _Winchester_ ,” Castiel says finally, then turns his attention away as Dean straightens up. “General Singer, General Turner, please leave us for a moment. Winchester and I have… business to discuss.”

Bobby and Rufus each shoot Dean a confused look, but do as Castiel had said, bowing as they leave the tent.

Now it’s just him and Cas, standing opposite each other, neither knowing what to do or say next.

Dean scents the air, trying to figure out what Cas is thinking, but the alpha’s scent is flat and tense, giving nothing away. All he can do is try not to betray his nervousness, keeping his back ramrod straight and his expression neutral as he waits for the king to speak.

Castiel paces a few steps closer, those blue eyes piercing into Dean but still not giving away anything that’s going on in his mind.

Finally, he speaks, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that _does things_ to Dean’s insides.

“Did you know who I was?”

Dean can’t keep the shock out of his expression at the question—how the hell could Cas even _think_ that he’d gone through all of last night knowing that he was the king of Eden? “If I knew who you were, do you think I would have tried to kill you?” he asks, his tone laced with surprise and indignation, sharper than he’d intended it to be. He softens it when he adds, “I’m a Winchester. My family is loyal to the crown and so am I.”

Cas keeps watching him with that level expression. “So you truly didn’t know,” he says again—not a question this time, but a statement. Double-checking.

Dean keeps his answer short and confident.

“No, I didn’t.”

It feels like his heart is in his throat as he watches Cas process this information. Finally, after what feels like eons but is probably only a matter of seconds, the cold kingly façade slips away with a tiny upwards twitch of Cas’s lips, and Dean feels the tension drain out of his body all at once.

“I had been informed that the woods were largely empty,” Cas says with a shake of his head and a slightly wry smile, “so I assumed you were a wandering soldier. I should have known better. I’m assuming you were _supposed_ to be scouting the enemy?”

There’s a teasing note to his voice now, and _this_ is the man that Dean recognises. Not the king, in command of an army, an entire kingdom, but the man he’d gotten to know last night in the woods, under the cover of anonymity.

He can’t help but smile, grinning when Cas mirrors it. “Hey, I was! Granted, I spent some time defending the woods from attractive alphas last night,” he points out with a smirk, delighting in the way that Cas’s scent shifts with his words, “but I do have some intel that I think will be of interest to you and the generals, _Your Majesty_.”

Dean had meant it jokingly, his tone playful, but Cas winces and his whole demeanour shifts. It’s almost imperceptible, but it’s there. “Don’t call me that, please,” he says quietly.

 _Interesting_. The silence stretches out between them in the wake of his request, and Dean has his theories as to why Cas would say that, but he decides to dig just a little deeper.

“What should I call you, then?”

Cas hesitates, glancing toward the entrance to the tent where Bobby and Rufus are surely waiting outside. “…Castiel,” he says finally. “Or Cas. But you don’t need to be formal with me. Not after last night.”

There’s a meaningful look in his eyes when he looks back at Dean, notes of emotion creeping back into his previously-flat scent that Dean doesn’t want to analyse too much more than he already has. His head is already spinning enough with the meaning layered beneath Cas’s words.

“Okay,” he says with a nod, giving Cas a little smile that he hopes will put his mind at ease. “Cas it is. And about last night…”

Cas holds up a hand to stop him, even though he’d already been trailing off. “After we win this battle, Dean,” he says, voice firm but gentle. “Then we’ll talk. I… I would like to get to know you better.”

He radiates vulnerability, from his voice to his expression to his scent. It must be hard for a king, so accustomed to giving orders or getting what he wants, to be _unsure_.

But Dean isn’t unsure. Not in the slightest. He knows how he feels about what happened last night, and he knows that he wants to see how this, whatever it is between him and Cas, will play out.

“Me too,” he tells Cas with a smile, then lets his lips curve into a teasing grin. “Plus, someone’s gotta keep you from wandering around the forest where any dashing omega could make an attempt on your life, after all.”

Cas gives him a look that is equal parts wryly amused and wholly unimpressed, but the most important thing is that the last of the tension and worry drains out of his scent. For now, Dean has done his job in settling Cas’s concerns.

“Very funny,” Cas tells him, shaking his head, then rolls out his shoulders and stands tall. It’s such a seamless transition back into his role as king that Dean can’t help but be impressed, letting it bleed slightly into his scent.

Cas must notice, if the upwards curl of his lips is any indication, but he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he says, “Let’s bring the generals back in and hear the intel you’ve gathered, Dean.” He gives Dean a look, tinged with hope and anticipation and want, everything that Dean can feel reflected inside himself. “The sooner we win this battle, the better.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com), and subscribe to me on ao3 [here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltnhalo). Also, come join us at the [Profound Bond discord server](https://discord.gg/profoundbond), a home to Destiel fans from all walks of life <3


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